Glorious Birds
by CaptAcorn
Summary: What if a down on his luck Tom Paris met someone else before Chakotay recruited him for the Maquis? What if it was the valet of a certain daughter of the Fifth House, holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, and heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed? Rated T for some language and innuendo.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:** This rarepair to end all rarepairs came about because Sareki02 asked me who I'd pair Tom Paris with if he couldn't be with B'Elanna. I know all the usual suspects: Janeway, Chakotay, Harry. I myself ship him with Tuvok, just a little bit, if Gravity went a different way. But I couldn't imagine any of those as long relationships. This one, however, just felt right. Or I may be crazy, one or the other. I know technically speaking this is probably a crossover, but I think this will appeal more to Voyager watchers than TNG-only watchers, so here it is

Endless thanks as always to **Sareki02** , not only for the idea this time but also for her patient beta reading of all my stuff, weird and otherwise. And also to **Photogirl1890** , the best amateur copy editor in existence! (They are also both damn good writers, to boot). I'd also like to give a shoutout to **Sasha** and **Quixotichealer,** if they are reading this. They have both been doing a lot of commenting and favoriting my stories in recent months, but don't have accounts I can contact directly. Thanks so much - I really do appreciate hearing from people!

This nutjob story takes place roughly two years prior to _Caretaker_.

* * *

Tom Paris directed what he hoped was a winning smile at the man on the other end of the bar. He was Concolorian and richly dressed — a long, bespoke suit jacket draped elegantly around his tail, and the cloth appeared to be a subtly patterned Bolian silk. When Tom had first shown up at the Milliway Arms a year ago, he'd heard rumors about the alien race from the other pilots. They'd warned him to stay away, that Concolorians' tastes ran towards the deviant, and they often asked more from their hires than just piloting. At the time, Tom had felt ill at the idea of anyone having to degrade themselves in such a fashion. But that was then, and this was now. The Concolorian looked wealthy, and Tom was desperate.

Apparently it wasn't a good look on him. The Concolorian curled both of his upper lips in disgust when he caught sight of Tom and he quickly turned away. The pilot picked up his drink with a sigh. When he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, he couldn't really blame the guy for rejecting him.

He was a fucking mess. It didn't help that Milliway's was the only bar in the galaxy that was well-lit. The way his worn (and not particularly clean) clothes hung off his too-thin frame, his grimy fingernails, two days' worth of stubble — it was all glaringly evident in the pristine white and red room. _Shit_ , Tom thought, as he regarded his rheumy eyes and the numerous capillaries that had ruptured across his cheeks. _You know you've hit bottom when you can't even manage to sell yourself anymore._

After he'd come clean, after Starfleet and his father told him that neither one wanted anything to do with him, he hadn't known where to go. He'd tried to hide in France, where he'd still had something resembling friends, but his sister had tracked him down within weeks. Tom knew that Kathleen or his other sister, Moira, would have put him up for a while. His mother would have helped him, too — discreetly pulled a few strings on his behalf. But what was the point? So he could disappoint them even more? Set himself up for failure once again? No. He wasn't going to do that, not to them and not to himself. Better to just disappear, go far away where he couldn't hurt anyone. Or least not anyone that mattered.

Which is how, several weeks after he'd left Earth, he'd found himself on Quatal Prime — a non-Federation colony that had an active role in trade both legitimate and otherwise. Milliway's was a known clearinghouse for unemployed pilots. If you sat your ass on a stool and were able to keep a ship in the sky, someone would hire you before too long: merchants, NGO's, some more nefarious organizations.

Unless, of course, you'd developed a reputation for fighting with your shipmates. Or having sex with the most inappropriate person on board. Or showing up to the helm hungover, and occasionally still drunk, which was the latest reason Tom had been fired. He'd been stuck here ever since — nearly a full week now, racking up his bar and room tab — with not even a whisper of a job prospect. If someone didn't hire him soon, Gillissen, Milliway's proprietor, would throw him to the wolves — maybe literally. The Quatal Prime penal code was not a merciful one.

 _God_ , Tom thought, rubbing his hands over his face, _it looks like I'm down to the Tattooed Terrorist._

That's what the pilots called the broad, dark-haired human that had shown up at Milliway's three days ago. The moniker was due to the elaborate tattoo that took up half the man's forehead. He was some kind of 'freedom fighter,' apparently; this was only relevant to Tom because it meant the pay would be shit. Ol' Inkface had approached no less than a dozen of Tom's fellow pilots — clearly whatever he had to offer them wasn't very tempting.

But beggars can't be choosers, not even beggars that had once trounced every piloting record Starfleet Academy had. Tom squinted at himself again in the mirror. Maybe he should go shave before he approached the other man. Or at least take a shower. Even freedom fighters, or maybe _especially_ freedom fighters, had their standards.

But before he could slide off the stool, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Gillissen.

"Hey there," Tom said, swiveling towards him and plastering his most charming grin on his face. "I know I haven't put anything down on my tab lately, but I swear: I've got a great lead on a new—"

"Cut the crap, Paris," Gillissen grunted, his central eye glaring at him. "I've got your job right here. This man says his boss needs a pilot, and for some unfathomable reason, he's interested in you."

Tom looked past Gillissen to see who this job offer was coming from. Then he looked up. The guy was massive. Not bulky, and given the cow-like expression on his face, not particularly intimidating. But very tall. Also, Tom noted with interest, very well-dressed. _Things are looking up,_ he thought, smiling in anticipation and at his own crappy pun.

"Thanks for the offer," Tom drawled as he leaned back against the bar. "But as I said, I've got a real promising lead I have to follow up on. So I'd be hard pressed to walk away from that unless the terms are favorable." He blinked bleary eyes at the giant and directed a smile upwards. "What sort of compensation is your boss offering, friend? I've gotta tell you — I don't come cheap. I've got Starfleet credentials, after all."

The pale man just continued to smile at him blandly and made no reply. _What the fuck?_ "Uh, Gillissen," Tom muttered, "is he OK? Does he not have translator?"

"He doesn't talk much," Gillissen replied. "But he doesn't have to. The terms are, Paris, you're going to take the job, he's going to pay your tab, and I'm not going to have you arrested for delinquency."

Tom's stomach dropped to the floor. He'd seen them. Everyone on Quatal Prime had: the debtors' prison work crews. What he hadn't seen, he'd heard rumors about. Confined to tiny, windowless cells for months, only allowed out to labor through the bitterly cold winters and grueling humid summers. It was the absolute rockiest bottom of all rock bottoms.

Gillissen had all five eyes trained on him. Not a single one blinked.

"Those _are_ good terms," Tom agreed as he slid off his bar stool. He looked up at the tall alien. "Looks like you've hired yourself a pilot."

 _On the bright side_ , he thought as he left the bar with the man that Gillissen said went by 'Mr Homn,' _At least I'm not stuck with the Tattooed Terrorist._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** So I do owe some apologies here: one, to the late, great Douglas Adams for blatantly ripping a name off of him (but I do so hate coming up with names) and in this chapter to Sir Elton John, for reasons that will become glaringly self-evident.

* * *

Tom Paris was in the shower. It was suggestion number two in the article Mr. Homn had downloaded on 'How To Sober a Human.' The first was coffee — hot and black. But the pilot had sputtered at the first sip and complained about the bitterness, claiming the only people that drank black coffee were masochists and sociopaths. He had then loaded the beverage with sugar and dairy products.

Mr. Homn could only assume that doctoring the beverage lessened its effectiveness as a remedy, as the human had still been quite intoxicated even once the mug was empty. Mr. Homn enjoyed a few liters of Andorian brandy himself from time to time, but he knew the pilot's current inebriated state would not make a good impression on his employer. So, after consulting his list, he'd guided the pilot into the bathroom of the hotel room he'd obtained, activated the water in the shower, and waited for the man to disrobe.

Tom Paris had frowned at him. "Just what kind of job are you hiring me for, pal? 'Cause a peep show costs extra. A lot extra."

 _Ah yes,_ Mr. Homn thought, recalling his experiences on the _Enterprise_. Humans were quite conservative in their attitudes towards nudity. He nodded at Tom Paris and backed out of the palatial bathroom. He was a patient _nMuMMnunn_. He could wait.

It appeared, though, he'd be waiting for quite a long time. The human had begun to sing. Loudly and rather off-key. Something about a city boy and a small town girl. This would not do. Mr. Homn was taking a rather large risk in hiring Tom Paris as the Honorable Lwaxana Troi's new pilot, and she would be highly displeased if her valet was unable to make him more presentable before their meeting in only two hours' time.

The Honorable Lwaxana Troi's vessel had lost its pilot owing to an unfortunate occurrence which Mr. Homn was not allowed to even think of ever again. After the aggrieved man had left the ship, they'd been in orbit around Qatal Prime only three hours when his mistress had decided the wait for a replacement from Betazed was unacceptably long. "Mr. Homn!" she'd declared. "I refuse to spend another moment orbiting this execrable trading post masquerading as a center of commerce. Go to the surface and find someone suitable to fly us away from here."

Per the local employment office, the Milliway Arms was the place to find pilots for hire. When he first arrived he found the environs quite promising. A stylishly appointed room, dominated by a long bar of black granite flecked with gold. It was the sort of place his mistress might frequent, were it not on such a sad backwater of a planet (and were it not a bar, which, of course, was well beneath her dignity). But to say he'd been disappointed with the selection of pilots was an understatement. They were all so loutish and haggard. The Honorable Lwaxana Troi would approve of none of them.

That's when the proprietor had mentioned Tom Paris. "He's a drunk, for sure. A liar and a deadbeat. Possibly a thief. Definitely an asshole. But he's young, and I hear when he's sober he flies rings around the competition. Bet he cleans up pretty."

Mr. Homn had studied the human slumped over the bar. Acceptable coloring. Tall for his species. A lean build with excellent bone structure. His mistress very well might find him appealing — once Mr. Homn was done with him. There was another, less definable quality that spoke to the valet, as well. It had not been clear to him at first, but as he'd guided the stumbling, smelly human towards the transport to the hotel, he'd realized what it was. Tom Paris needed someone.

And the Honorable Lwaxana Troi did love being needed.

"She packed my bags last night pre-flight! Zero hour nine AM!"

The song had changed. This one was more melancholy but no less slurred. Mr. Homn was beginning to doubt the veracity of his list, but as he had no other resources to consult, he reviewed suggestion two again. A _cold_ shower, it said! Mr. Homn eyed the plume of steam that was coming out from under the door. That must be the problem. Easily remedied!

"And I think it's gonna be a long, long time!"

Tom Paris did not hear Mr. Homn enter the bathroom over his singing, which had turned into a series of odd, gasping hiccups. No matter. He could adjust the water temperature from outside the shower.

"I'm a rocket maaaaan. Rocket maaaaaaannn! Burning out his fuse up here alon— Aaaauuugggh!"

 _What an unusual song_ , Mr. Homn thought. _Was it common for human music to be punctuated by shrill screaming?_ He'd have to investigate at another time.

"What the fuck is the matter with you? Are you trying to kill me?"

Tom Paris had thrown open the shower doors, dripping and red in the face. He was also rather smaller than Mr. Homn had expected. Of course, he'd seen very few human males naked before. Perhaps this was what most of them looked like.

The naked man stared daggers at Mr. Homn, then, glancing downwards, Tom Paris snatched a towel off a nearby hook and wrapped his lower half. "It's because you turned the water cold, OK? Things tend to… tighten up down there when someone tries to freeze you to death."

Mr. Homn simply nodded. He was just happy to have Tom Paris out of the shower. No reason to argue with the belligerent little man over something so trivial. The arguments could wait until Tom Paris discovered Mr. Homn had thrown out all of his clothes. The human had a truly alarming number of unflattering vests.

"What were you trying to do anyway?" Tom Paris asked him as he used a second towel to dry his hair. "If you needed me out of the shower, you could have just said something." The human rolled his eyes. "What am I saying? I guess you couldn't. And how am I supposed to learn more about this job you want me for, anyway? You got something written down or…?"

Mr. Homn ignored Tom Paris' rambling and reconsidered his list of suggestions. Neither the shower nor the coffee had resulted in any discernible improvement to the human's sobriety. His speech was still slurred and he'd nearly fallen over twice as he'd dried himself off. Very disappointing. Perhaps number three would be better? _Induce vomiting._ Mr. Homn headed to the replicator for an emetic.

Suggestion number three did not go over well. At all. Mr. Homn would have to charge the cleaning fee to the Honorable Lwaxana Troi's account. It was fortunate that his mistress gave him such a large discretionary fund. Clearly Mr. Homn was missing some key step in the sobering process. He thumbed the PADD to the top of the article for review.

Tom Paris was lying curled in a ball on the bathroom floor — moaning, still naked, and now in need of a second shower — when Mr. Homn discovered his mistake. He was on page two of the article. On page one, it clarified that the following list consisted of age-old myths on how to lessen intoxication of humans. None of the ideas were actually recommended. Once Mr. Homn moved to page three, he saw there was now a rather simple remedy, conveniently dispensed in a hypospray. Back to the replicator!

Ninety minutes later, Mr. Homn smiled in satisfaction. Tom Paris was sober, clean shaven, and his hair was freshly trimmed. It took some convincing, but he was also dressed in a rather dashing ensemble — tailored slate-grey pants, a well-constructed brown jacket, with a hint of color from the red silken shirt he wore beneath it. Now, Mr. Homn was certain, the Honorable Lwaxana Troi would find the pilot very appealing.

As long as he didn't open his mouth. Tom Paris, Mr. Homn noted regretfully, was rather surly when he wasn't drunk.

"Let's go meet this boss of yours," the young human grumbled, gesturing at the door of the hotel suite. "Faster I get this job done, the faster I can get drunk again."


	3. Chapter 3

Lwaxana Troi, daughter of the Fifth House, holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, and heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed, was annoyed.

She'd very clearly asked Mr. Homn to find someone _suitable_ to fly their small vessel back to Betazed. Why her valet thought 'suitable' meant the sulky man-child standing in front of her, she had no idea. Clearly Mr. Homn needed a refresher course on her standards — an undertaking she would begin the moment they flew away from this godforsaken outer colony.

Lwaxana had heard the pilot before she saw him — his complaining was so loud, it was audible well before she opened the doors of her private rooms.

"Hang on," the man was saying. "She's Betazoid? No one told me she was Betazoid! No. No way. I'm not working for any fucking telepaths. I prefer to keep my thoughts to myself, thank you very— Hey! Let go of me!"

A deep sigh of disgust escaped her. So self-important! Lwaxana Troi was one of the most powerful telepaths in the quadrant and a person of great import on Betazed — did this pathetic little man really think she could be bothered to read the thoughts of every random transient that crossed her path? It was not an auspicious sign. She rose from her chaise lounge. No further interview would be required. Best to send this one back from whence he came. She opened the door of her chamber to announce her decision.

"Mr. Homn," she declared, then paused. The pilot, who was unsuccessfully trying to pry his right arm from Mr. Homn's grasp, was not what she was expecting. He was young, first of all — only a few years past adolescence. He was also quite handsome. Nearly as tall as Will Riker, well-groomed, expensively dressed. And such striking blue eyes! The diversity of eye color was one of her favorite things about humans. She supposed, if he was going to put such effort into presenting himself for his new employer, she could at least take a few minutes to get to know him. Lwaxana extended her hand towards the young man.

"I am Lwaxana Troi, daughter of the Fifth House, holder of the—"

"I'm very happy for you," the pilot interjected. "But all I want is my clothes replaced and my ass transported back to the surface. I don't work for telepaths."

 _What nerve!_ The pleasing effect of his eye color was being rapidly diminished by his deplorable attitude. _Replace his clothes? Whatever is the man going on about?_ Lwaxana directed a pointed look at Mr. Homn, who shrugged and looked apologetic.

 _I see._ She turned back to the pilot. "According to Mr. Homn," Lwaxana said aloud, "the loss of your clothes was no great tragedy. That jacket alone is likely worth ten times the value of what he discarded. And as you have yet to provide me with even the smallest service, I'm not sure why I owe you anything. Other than perhaps a trip to the local authorities. You really shouldn't have accepted the clothing if you weren't planning on upholding your end of the agreement."

Lwaxana was only having a bit of fun. There was so little to be had in this terrible system. She had no intention of calling any authorities, but she did so enjoy making small-minded men feel even smaller. In reality, she would happily let him keep the clothes, as well as purchase him a whole set of new ones, just to get him out of her presence. He was very unpleasant for someone so physically appealing.

The change in the pilot was instantaneous. Gone were the hostility and the defensiveness. Instead, his face took on the mimicry of an open expression and a facile grin appeared. "Now, Mrs… Troi, you said? No need to get the authorities involved. I think we've just gotten off on the wrong foot. The name's Tom Paris. And I just happen to be the best pilot in the system. Possibly the quadrant. Starfleet trained, holder of multiple Academy records— "

Lwaxana waved him to silence. Who did he think he was fooling with this act? "I believe you've mistaken me for someone who is easily impressed, Mr. Paris. Your skills, of which I am highly suspect, are irrelevant in the face of your appalling manners. It is clear to me that my valet has hired you in error. We will not be needing your services, and as for your clothes—"

Mr. Homn cleared his throat. Lwaxana raised an eyebrow and gave him her attention. _A week before a replacement arrives from Betazed? And you're absolutely certain this malcontented layabout is the best you can do?_ Her valet nodded solemnly in response.

She turned back to Paris and studied him, her eyes narrowed. Despite what many non-telepaths seemed to think, Betazoids didn't just go around reading minds willy nilly without permission. Oh, Lwaxana liked to tease, pretend someone's thoughts were so loud she could hardly help herself; but the fact was it was considered rather unethical, especially when the person seemed uncomfortable with telepathy, as Paris clearly was.

But if Lwaxana was going to trust her runabout and her very life to the care of this petulant cad, then she needed to have _some_ idea of his inner nature. He was obviously worried about getting the authorities involved, perhaps inordinately so. Was he some sort of fugitive? What if he was lying about his piloting qualifications? It was doubtful he'd be providing references. She would only take a little peek. Just under the surface.

Lwaxana nearly stumbled backwards at what she found. She'd never met anyone filled with such self-loathing! How could someone so young feel so hopeless about his future? She quickly blocked him off again to avoid detection, but she'd found what she needed to know. The name he was using was his real one — so he wasn't hiding from the law — and he was being completely honest about his piloting skills. He was also terrified of the idea of being sent to jail.

Perhaps that fear was what made Tom Paris change tactics once again. For suddenly, the pilot's expression changed to the first honest one Lwaxana had seen.

"Look, Mrs. Troi," he said, sparing her a quick glance before directing his eyes squarely towards his own toes. "I'm just going to lay my cards out on the table here. You don't owe me anything, you're right, but... please don't call the authorities on me. I'm broke. And I can't… Not jail. Please? I can fly your ship. I can fly anything. I swear. I'll get you back to Betazed no problem. Then I'll be out of your hair, if that's what you want."

"What I want, Mr. Paris," she said, burying the pity she now felt for Tom Paris below her customary imperious tone. "Is for a respectable pilot to be at the helm of my ship. Not some Starfleet reject. But... even a daughter of the Fifth House doesn't always get her preference. And I suppose I'd rather have even you fly my ship than be stuck in this abhorrent system for another week."

Paris met her eyes again. This time his face had just a touch of hope. It made him look even younger. Lwaxana frowned. She would _not_ soften. "Here are my terms: you'll work off the cost of the clothing you've been given, as well as the rather exorbitant bar bill Mr. Homn has just paid on your behalf. I can also provide you with a small remuneration, so you'll be able to get to your next port of call."

His smarmy grin was back. As if he'd somehow conned her into giving him a job. As if he hadn't just made a desperate plea for help a moment ago. "You won't regret it, ma'am. I just have one condition—"

Lwaxana didn't let him finish. "I assure you, Mr. Paris. I have no interest," she gestured grandly at his head, "in getting inside of _that_."

It was only a small lie.

Paris gave her another lopsided (and patently false) grin. "Sounds like we have a deal then."

Lwaxana gave him a nod, her own smile touching the corners of her mouth. "I believe we do."


	4. Chapter 4

It was not unlike having a teenager again, although Deanna had never been so recalcitrant.

Moody, sarcastic, defiant — there were several moments during the first days of their journey when Lwaxana deeply regretted her decision to keep the young pilot in her employ. She had a sneaking suspicion the more difficult aspects of his personality were a ploy to keep others at a distance, but it didn't make them any more tolerable.

However, it wasn't as if she had anything of particular import to occupy her time, and she did enjoy a project. He was so young, after all — which surely meant he was also malleable. She wasn't going to keep him on, of course, but perhaps she could improve his future job prospects with a little tweaking.

The first step was to stop the drinking. During that initial, dreadful interview, the smell of alcohol had bled out of the man's pores.

"What the hell is up with your replicators?" he'd demanded over the comm system, only five hours into their flight back to Betazed. "All I can get it to make is synthehol!"

"I prefer my pilots to be in full possession of their wits, Mr. Paris," she'd trilled at him. "I'm sure you understand." She'd then snapped her monitor shut on his indignant face. She'd also directed Mr. Homn to discreetly provide Mr. Paris with whatever medications he might need to relieve the symptoms of alcohol withdrawal.

Which was, apparently, at least partly responsible for his peevishness. The second step had been to teach him appropriate manners, but once the alcohol was out of his system, they seemed to improve on their own. By the time they arrived on Betazed, in fact, Paris was almost pleasant. Or, at least, less rude. And Lwaxana had to admit — he _was_ a skilled pilot. Her runabout had never flown so smoothly. They'd passed through a minor ion storm two days ago, and she hadn't even noticed until Mr. Homn thought to mention it. So his flying ability would stand him in good stead, as well. Lwaxana was pleased she'd be able to set such a handsome young man on a better path than he'd been on previously.

"This is our farewell, Mr. Paris," Lwaxana told him just before she disembarked. She was standing just inside the runabout hatch, waiting for Mr. Homn, as she needed assistance with her train. Why had he chosen this dress for her today? It was very impractical when one needed to exit from a ship.

Paris was already standing in the shuttle hangar, having gotten off ten minutes ago to give the hangar attendants an update on the runabout's condition and maintenance needs. He looked up at her, blowing a stray lock of blond hair out of his eye. "Before you leave, Mrs. Troi, I… uh… want to thank you. For giving me the job. You really helped me out." He shifted from foot to foot. "And I'm sorry. For being kind of an ass at the beginning."

"Apology accepted. You managed quite well by the end. I'm sure Mr. Homn can provide you with a sterling reference for your next employer. You're still very young, Mr. Paris. Don't waste this opportunity." Still no valet. Why ever did she keep that man around?

"No, ma'am, I won't. And really: thanks. I mean it."

"You're very welcome," Lwaxana replied, looking above his head to survey the hangar. Really, where was Mr. Homn? Had he left the ship and she hadn't noticed? This was becoming quite awkward.

"Uh… Mrs. Troi?"

"Yes, Mr. Paris?"

"Did you need help with something?"

Lwaxana sighed. She supposed even the pilot's help was better than nothing. "I need assistance with my train. It has a tendency to get caught in the steps, you see."

"Sure," Paris said, jumping lightly up the stairs and back into the runabout. "I can take care of that for you."

"It's real Andaran linen," she cautioned him. "You have to be careful not to wrinkle it."

"I think I can handle it," he said with a wink. A wink! "One of my older sisters, she was always making me help her with this kind of stuff."

True to his word, Paris had soon expertly draped the long train of fabric over his right arm. He then offered Lwaxana his hand and grinned, rather charmingly, she had to admit. "My lady."

"No need to be cheeky, Mr. Paris," she murmured, but she smiled back at him. "What's her name? Your sister?"

Paris stiffened. "Oh, uh… Moira. Here you are." He fell away from her side and dropped the fabric to the floor with far less attention than he'd picked it up.

"Carefully, please," Lwaxana instructed him, never taking her eyes off him. Clearly she'd hit upon something. Intriguing. The only thing to do, of course, was probe further. "Is Moira back on Earth?"

"Yeah," he muttered, not lifting his head to look at her. "I guess. We haven't really kept in touch. I should go get my things." Paris disappeared inside the hatch. _Very_ intriguing.

Mr. Homn finally appeared only a few moments later. _I want you to keep an eye on our young Mr. Paris,_ Lwaxana instructed him. _Make sure he lands on his feet. He's improved by light years over the past five days — I don't want my influence on him to go to waste._

Mr. Homn nodded with a smile.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Just a quick thank you to everyone that has been reading this and especially to those that have left reviews! I had a lot of fun with this story and I'm glad I'm making converts of at least some of you. (But don't worry, I'm still a P/T'er at heart).

* * *

Tom tilted his head upwards to take in the full scale of the doors that marked the entrance to Lwaxana Troi's home. They must have been three meters tall. "So, Mr. Homn," he said, clearing his throat. "You got any tips for me before I walk into the lion's den?"

Mr. Homn looked down at him, one eyebrow raised by a millimeter.

"No," Tom said with a sigh. "Of course you don't."

He really was the most pathetic excuse for a human being to ever walk the Earth. Or any other planet, for that matter. How could he have done it again? Mrs. Troi had given him a chance — let him fly her ship, helped him find a new job, and what had he done? Fucked it up royally, just like always.

If only they'd gotten him a job somewhere else. Anywhere else! He'd made it very clear he wasn't comfortable around telepaths! It's like they wanted him to fail!

 _No_. Tom mentally slapped himself. _Don't do that_. It wasn't Mrs. Troi's fault, or Mr. Homn's. How could he blame the only two people that had tried to help him? This whole mess was completely, one-hundred-percent Tom Paris' to own, as per usual.

He could have turned down the job if he'd wanted to. They'd given him plenty of funds to get back to Quatal Prime or any place else he wanted. But something had made him stay on Betazed. That was his first mistake. Clearly he should have paid attention to his first instincts — the ones that told him to stay far away from telepaths. When it had just been Mrs. Troi, it wasn't so bad. Maybe it was because she was a diplomat and had spent time with non-telepaths, but she _,_ at least, understood a person sometimes needed privacy, that it was OK to have some boundaries. Unlike the rest of her fucking race.

But instead of getting while the getting was good, Tom had stupidly taken the the job Mr. Homn had found him at the shuttle port. He'd been trying, he really had! But Seigen had kept prying: Why did you leave Starfleet, Tom? What's your family like, Tom? Our jobs would be so much easier if you'd just let me read you, Tom! Mix the constant interrogation with the local (surprisingly potent) vodka equivalent — how could things _not_ have gotten ugly? He was only human, for God's sake!

 _The worst fucking human ever_ , Tom thought as he stood outside Mrs. Troi's home office. His jaw still itched where Seigen had broken it. He scratched at it and knocked on the pale wooden door.

"Well, Mr. Paris," Mrs. Troi said as soon as he stepped a foot inside. "I can't say I'm not disappointed."

Tom braced himself. He knew what was coming: a long lecture on how he'd wasted the opportunity she'd given him, how he'd ruined his own reputation and hers to boot. It could be worse, Tom supposed. At least it wasn't his father. At least he also wouldn't have to hear about how much potential he'd thrown away or how he'd spit in the face of Starfleet ideals. Tom studied his boot tips for several moments, then realized Mrs. Troi was still silent. He looked up, his brow creased.

She was watching him, her chin tilted slightly upwards. "You don't have anything to say for yourself?" she asked.

"No. I mean, yes." Tom paused. "I thought… I was waiting for you to go first."

"I've always found lectures rather tiring," she replied. "Whether I'm giving them or receiving them. And they don't tend to be very effective, either. Do you have any idea how many times I've extolled the virtues of marriage to my daughter? It must number in the dozens by now, and look where it's gotten me. No, I don't have anything else to say, Mr. Paris. But I daresay you should."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, swallowing a bit of bile that had risen in his throat. "I'm sorry. For starting the fight and messing up the job you helped me get."

'Thank you," Mrs. Troi said, rising from her chair. She crossed to the small tea cart in the corner. "Now we can move on from this unfortunate interlude."

Well, that was that, then. Tom should be grateful, really. He was getting out of this without leaving too much damage in his wake. (Unless you counted Seigen's nose. But Tom didn't feel too bad about that, if he was being honest.) He turned and started to head towards the door of the office. "Good-bye, Mrs. Troi. Thanks for everything. And I really am sorry."

"Wherever are you going?" Mrs. Troi turned away from the cart. She was holding two cups of tea in her hands.

It was a good question, actually. Where _was_ he going? Seeing as Seigen was the boss' son, Tom was for sure out of a job. Which meant he was also out of housing as well. On top of that, Betazoids took the incitement of violence seriously, and Tom had been placed on probation for starting the bar fight. Meaning he still couldn't leave this fucking planet. Not for the next six weeks, anyway. Jobless, homeless, and friendless once again.

Mrs. Troi was still waiting for an answer. "I don't know," Tom admitted. "Back to the courthouse, I guess. I'm supposed to do some kind of community service, but I don't know what. Nobody really explained the terms of my probation very well."

"Of course they didn't," Mrs. Troi said with a dramatic sigh. She moved over to a divan set against the tall windows on the south wall. "Some of my people are quite hopeless at dealing with non-telepaths. Sit down, please."

Tom sat. A flowered tea cup was pressed into his hands. Then Mrs. Troi explained that she'd already arranged everything.

Working for the diplomatic corps counted as community service, and they were already used to each other, after all. And perhaps it _was_ best for Tom to spend time amongst Betazoids that were more familiar with dealing with non-telepathic species, at least for the time being. And he could just stay here, in one of the guest rooms, until her next scheduled trip. Which was only a week away. It couldn't be more perfect.

Tom stared at her, dumbfounded. He nearly dumped the cup of tea into his lap, but caught it at the last second. A few drops splattered onto his lap.

"Do be careful, Mr. Paris," Mrs. Troi scolded him. "That cup is an antique. So it's all settled. Mr. Homn has already arranged to have your things brought here. I do have one condition: no more drinking. You and alcohol don't seem to mix very well."

"No," Tom murmured, then, louder: "I mean: no! Mrs. Troi, you shouldn't do this. You _can't_ do this."

"Well!" she said, her eyebrows shooting upwards. "I'm not sure who _you_ are, to tell me what I can or can't do."

Tom very carefully placed the delicate cup onto a coaster on her coffee table.

He then jumped to his feet as if the little couch had shocked him. "Do you not remember? That I've already screwed up on you once before? It won't go any differently this time, I promise you. I'll try, I will, but I'll just mess it all up again. It's what I do. It's who I am." He sank back onto the cushion, suddenly unbearably tired. "Why do you keep trying to help me? I'm not worth it."

A warm hand slipped over his. "Of course you are, dear. Everyone is. You're not your mistakes, Mr. Paris. You can do better. I'm sure of it. And I am _never_ wrong."

Tom gave her a sidelong glance and sighed. "You're not going to take no for an answer, are you?"

Mrs. Troi patted his hand and beamed at him. "Now you're starting to understand."


	6. Chapter 6

Lwaxana was pleasantly surprised by how well everything was going. She had suspected Mr. Paris had hidden depths and had said so to Mr. Homn many times, but it was always nice to be proven right.

The first bit of serendipity happened only ten days into their new arrangement. Lwaxana was at an environmental summit, held a three days' journey away on Risa. She'd been a little concerned about bringing the young pilot along, given the planet's rather decadent culture. Mr. Homn had been given strict instructions to keep him away from the local bar scene. But two days into the summit and he'd barely left the runabout, claiming he was making some 'upgrades.' In fact, after one particularly frustrating committee meeting, she'd come across him in her private rooms, adjusting her replicator.

"Sorry," he'd said. "I was just programming it with that cheese you liked. The one with the truffles? I'll get out of your way."

"Oh, it doesn't matter," Lwaxana said, then threw herself upon her chaise. "Maybe some cheese will help. Certainly nothing else seems to be. Mr. Homn! Where are you?"

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Paris asked her.

"No, dear, I'm sure there isn't," Lwaxana said, then told him her troubles anyway. The summit had always been a pleasure, one of her favorite events. Until this year. It was the tenth meeting of the Interstellar Ecological Alliance, a forum of several area planets of which Betazed was a founding member. But this year was the first in which the Bombyxians had participated, and one of Lwaxana's roles was to help them find their footing. She and the leading Bombyxian delegate were not hitting it off.

"He's really just the most insufferable man," Lwaxana said. "It as if he _wants_ to be offended by every word that comes from my mouth. And they're a very tight-lipped people. There's almost no information on their culture, I haven't the slightest clue what I'm doing wrong, and Mr. Mori doesn't seem interested in helping me figure it out."

Paris had been listening attentively the whole time, but now was gnawing at his lower lip. "It might be… Never mind."

"Speak," Lwaxana said graciously. No doubt Paris would have little to contribute, but she liked to encourage him.

"It might be your clothes."

Maybe not too much encouragement. "My clothes, Mr. Paris?"

"Not the design," he said quickly. "It's a beautiful dress. But the fabric."

"Explain."

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Well, the Bombyxians, they're basically sentient silkworms, right? They literally make all their own clothes and linens themselves. So they view synthetic fabrics as a personal affront. They feel it devalues them as a species."

Lwaxana fingered the delicate vermillion tulle that covered her skirt. His explanation made perfect sense. But how did Paris, of all people, know this? Given he'd left Starfleet (she suspected on bad terms) Lwaxana had always assumed he'd been a rather lackluster student. "Did you study the Bombyxians at the Academy?"

Paris turned back to the replicator, although he didn't seem to be doing anything to it. "No. It was… Uh… my father. He spent some time on Bombyx Prime when I was a kid. He used to tell me about his miss— His work, sometimes."

She didn't press. It was clear that this wasn't something Paris wanted to discuss yet, and she'd spent enough time with the young man to know nothing spooked him like overzealous prying. But it certainly piqued her interest.

Paris had been clear he didn't want her in his head, but he'd never said Lwaxana couldn't learn more about him via more conventional methods. It _was_ all public record. Nothing that any interested party couldn't find out with a few minutes of simple research.

It turned out Thomas Eugene Paris was the Starfleet equivalent of royalty. When he'd said his father had spent some time with the Bombyxians, he was rather downplaying the thing. Admiral Owen Paris had, in fact, been the Starfleet captain that had made Federation first contact with Bombyx Prime. Lwaxana found pages on the varied accomplishments of Paris' father, as well as his Admiral grandmother. His mother's name was not quite as ubiquitous, but _was_ attached to a number of prominent publications. Lwaxana realized with a start that she'd once briefly met Julia Paris over a decade prior.

On Tom himself, there wasn't as much information. He held several flying records, won the piloting award each year he'd been at the Academy, had been posted to a ship called the _Exeter,_ and then… it ended. He was listed as dishonorably discharged a bit over a year ago, but no reason was given. Lwaxana could ask Deanna for more information. She would surely have access to some of Starfleet's more confidential files. But Lwaxana wasn't quite ready to share her latest project with her daughter. Not yet.

She was ready, however, to see what other tricks Paris might have up his sleeve. Her first opportunity was the closing gala of the summit. "I need an escort for tonight's festivities," she informed him when she found him reading at the helm of their docked vessel.

Paris had had his feet propped up on the console and nearly fell out of his chair when she spoke. "Could you maybe not sneak up on a guy like that? Sheesh." His face froze. "Wait. What did you just say?"

"You're going to be my escort tonight."

"Me?" he squeaked. "What about Mr. Homn?"

"There will be quite a bit of dancing, and Mr. Homn is a terrible dancer," Lwaxana replied before sweeping her way into the corridor. "But he _will_ help you choose an outfit!"

Later that evening, she discovered her instincts were spot on once again. "You're very good. Not many humans are familiar with the Bolian foxtrot," she said as he moved her artfully across the dance floor.

Paris' ears turned pink. "My mother made me start taking lessons when I was eight. She used to say: 'No one likes _learning_ how to dance, but everyone likes people that _know_ how to dance.'"

"Your mother sounds like a very smart woman."

"She is," he mumbled, then gave her a small grin. "But I still hated those damn lessons."

Lwaxana smiled back. An excellent dancer and he had a sense of humor, after all. She may have hit the jackpot.

Things progressed swimmingly from there, although the poor, misguided boy was a bit resistant at first. "I'm a pilot, not your attaché!" he whined when Lwaxana added a few finishing touches to his attire for that evening's state dinner. "I'm not even Betazoid! Why do I have to go?"

"It always pays to be skilled in multiple areas," Lwaxana said as she adjusted his cravat. "Besides, the prime minister of Lumensi isn't telepathic either, and she's been very reluctant to sign the trade agreement. I think you'll prove to be quite useful tonight."

Paris frowned and loosened the cravat she'd just tightened. "I don't know anything about trade agreements. What do you expect me to do?"

"I expect you to flirt, dear," Lwaxana said, tightening the cravat again. "I've heard she has a proclivity for blonds."

"What if there's someone else I'd rather flirt with?" he challenged her, waggling his eyebrows.

"Don't start something you're not up to finishing, Mr. Paris," Lwaxana said, giving him a stern look. But she smiled when she turned away.

The prime minister signed the agreement the following morning.

Unexpectedly, Paris became involved in Lwaxana's hunt for her next husband as well. "What about that one?" he murmured to her over dessert at the annual Parliament Ball, gesturing at a senator from Tega province.

"Not interested in women, unfortunately. Or vertebrates in general." She laughed at Paris' exaggerated look of horror and disbelief, then nodded her assent when he stood and indicated the dance floor. "I thought you disliked dancing, Mr. Paris."

"Maybe I've just never had the right partner," he said with a wink, taking her hand as she stepped off the dais to join the waltz. "There's always Leegan Rax. He's making quite a name for himself in Betazoid literary circles."

"For no reason I can determine," Lwaxana sniffed. "He makes Mr. Homn look articulate." She didn't recall the Triburnian waltz requiring one's partner to be so close. Not that she was complaining. Was Paris wearing a new cologne? He smelled rather enticing this evening. "What do you think of Mr. Crioddan? He's very important on the banking commission on Lumensi."

Paris frowned at the tall, pasty man that had spent the night invading the personal space of every female server in the room. He tilted his head forward and put his lips close to her ear. "You deserve better than that. A _lot_ better."

But perhaps what surprised Lwaxana most of all, what she would have never expected when he'd shown up that first day so hungover and irksome, was that Paris had turned out to be unfailingly kind, particularly to those that seemed to need it the most. She saw it when he'd spent most of one banquet chatting with Governor Horen's perpetually lonely child, or when he'd helped Lwaxana's gardener fix his broken hover-barrow, or once when he'd donned an EVA suit to free a megastropoda that had gotten trapped in the runabout's dorsal plasma vent. "The sensors said it was pregnant," he'd told an impatient (and slightly concerned) Lwaxana when he came back aboard. "I couldn't just leave it there."

Sometimes, the kindness extended to her as well.

"I thought you were turning in early, Mr. Paris," Lwaxana said to him when she passed him in the runabout's lounge late one night. She'd just returned from the closing ceremonies of the Arrellian Festival on Junxi. They were leaving for Betazed early in the morning and Paris had begged off from the after-party, saying he wanted to make sure he was well-rested.

"Couldn't sleep," he said, closing the book that he'd been reading. He was dressed for bed — barefoot, in soft blue pants that hung off his hips and a white t-shirt. He rose from the couch on which he'd been sprawled. "So I figured I might as well wait up for you. See how things went with Vice President Ronzi."

"Not very well, I'm afraid," Lwaxana said with a sigh. "He said he was flattered, but that he needs to focus on his career and doesn't feel we're a good match. That, while he hates that it's the case, 'appearances are paramount in my planet's current political climate.' I believe what he was trying to say is that I'm too old." She saw the concern and anger flare on Paris' face, but she waved him off. "Oh, it's all right, dear. He's not wrong. It may be time for me to admit that I am getting rather past my prime."

Paris stepped closer to her, shaking his head. "The only thing he's right about is that you two aren't a good match. You're light years better than that asshole."

Lwaxana tried to arrange her face into a suitably disapproving frown, but found herself smiling at him instead. Paris did look adorable, his hair all mussed like that. "I'm not sure I approve of your language, Mr. Paris, but I do appreciate the sentiment."

Paris grinned at her and took another step closer. "It's not a 'sentiment,' it's the truth. You're one of

the most beautiful women I've ever seen, Mrs. Troi. Inside and out."

He was very close now, not even half a meter in front of her. His t-shirt was rather tight, Lwaxana noted, and stretched across his pectorals. Would they be firm under her touch? Would his arms feel as strong as they looked?

It wasn't right, what she wanted to do. He didn't want her in his head, had made that clear from the beginning. And Paris _was_ making it fairly clear what was on his mind. But she had to be sure. She simply couldn't bear the thought of him rejecting her tonight. So, yes, Lwaxana knew it was wrong; but in the moment, she didn't care. She pushed past the mental barriers Paris kept firmly in place and liked very much what she found.

"You know, Mr. Paris," she said, her voice low. "We've known each other several weeks now. You could call me Lwaxana, if you like. When we're in private, of course."

"Lwaxana," he repeated, licking his lips as if he'd enjoyed the feel of her name in his mouth. He took another step closer. "Well, then, you should call me Tom. When we're in private."

In the dim light of the lounge, his pupils dilated, nearly blacking out the blue of his irises. He looked almost Betazoid. Lwaxana reached a hand forward and traced one finger lightly along his jaw. "How well rested do you need to be tomorrow, Mis… Tom?"

"Not all that much," he answered, cupping his left hand around her own and placing the other low on her hip. "In fact, I feel like I have some energy to burn off."

"Perhaps that's something I can help you with."


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: This chapter has some references to the seventh season **Star Trek: TNG** episode _Dark Page_.

* * *

Sometimes Lwaxana wondered if she was being an old fool. He was, quite literally, less than half her age. He had no political power or influence. His well-placed familial connections had clearly been abandoned. Then Tom would slip into her bed and her worries disappeared. Instead, she thought about how he was funny and clever and handsome. How very talented he was at bringing her pleasure. How he made her feel more desirable than any man had since Ian.

It wouldn't last forever, Lwaxana knew. She wasn't in complete denial. Eventually Tom would grow bored or less insecure, and he'd realize that his feelings were just gratitude masquerading as desire. He would move on to bigger and better things, certainly younger ones. It wasn't even just about their relationship. He was a highly skilled pilot and had shown a real flair for diplomacy. He'd even, the shuttle port's engineer informed her, made some improvements in her runabout's propulsion systems. Tom was clearly overqualified to be flying her around this little corner of the quadrant, carting her from one diplomatic engagement to another. Lwaxana knew her real duty, despite how much fun they were having together, was to show him how to move on.

Fortunately, she didn't have to show him tonight.

They would be attending the Mejallio Gala. It was a highly anticipated event in this sector, the most glamorous event of the season. Lwaxana had been planning her outfit for a month. She'd even obtained several yards of fabric from the personal stock of the previously disagreeable Mr. Mori. Her wig was threaded with the bioluminescent tail hairs of an Urten tricorn. She looked fabulous.

As did her escort. Lwaxana had initially been concerned by his choice of attire — an ancient Earth formal wear item called a 'tuxedo.' But he'd begged and wheedled and promised her he would look almost but not quite as good as she would. "It's a twentieth-century classic!"

"It's not a costume party, dear," she'd said with a frown. "Perhaps it should stay in the twentieth century."

"Trust me? Please?"

How could Lwaxana say no to that face?

But she'd still been apprehensive as she'd applied her makeup, and Mr. Homn had made some final adjustments to her gown; wondering if she'd have time to make Tom change if his outfit was a flop. Thankfully, her fears turned out to be baseless.

"Well?" Tom asked as he slowly turned in front of her in the living room of their hotel suite. "Did I do good or what?"

Lwaxana beamed at her young companion. The suit had obviously been carefully tailored to his measurements, the midnight blue fabric giving off a subtle glint when the light hit him just right. It was as if he were wearing the night sky itself. "I suspect, my dear," she said, walking towards him to straighten his tie, "that you might single handedly bring the tuxedo back in style."

"Thanks," he said, ducking his chin. "Mr. Homn helped me modernize it a little."

Lwaxana turned towards her valet, a rather lascivious smile on her face. "Then I owe quite a bit of gratitude to Mr. Homn as well."

The evening started out wonderfully. The Gala's organizers had truly outdone themselves — the ballroom had a transparent ceiling and there was an impressive display of fireworks to kick off the event. The food, the music, Lwaxana couldn't remember there being a better event in over a decade.

Which is why it was so unfortunate how it all ended.

Lwaxana was chatting with Lady Karrian and had sent Tom to fetch them a round of cocktails when she felt a tap on her shoulder. "Ambassador Troi?"

She turned to find a human man in a Starfleet dress uniform. He appeared to be a captain based on the rank insignia on his shoulder. "May I help you, Captain... ?"

The man extended a light brown hand towards her and inclined his head. "Captain Desai, ma'am. Of the USS _Douglass_. I saw you dancing earlier and wanted to speak with you. In private, if you don't mind."

Lwaxana excused herself to Lady Karrian with a roll of her eyes. "I simply can't get a moment's peace." She let Desai guide her to a small alcove off the main ballroom. The man's interest in her wasn't unexpected — she was frequently approached by eligible bachelors at these sorts of events, particularly ones that were interested in her political ties. Although she had to admit, while Desai wasn't unattractive, she had been less and less interested in finding a new husband of late. Betazoid tradition aside, did she _really_ need another spouse? But she would still be polite in her rejection. Perhaps the captain was a friend of Jean-Luc's.

"Well, Captain," she said with her kindest smile. "You have me alone. Now what do you plan to do with me?"

Desai didn't quite meet her eyes when he answered. His nervousness was coming off him in waves. "I was hoping, Ambassador, that we could discuss your relationship with the young man that accompanied you here this evening."

As predicted, it was a fishing expedition. No wonder he was so anxious! Lwaxana would have to let him down gently. "Mr. Paris is my pilot, Captain. I often have him escort me to these sorts of affairs. As I'm sure you've noticed, he's sublime on the dance floor." She smiled at him again. "Scoping out the competition are you? I'd have to say, you'd be hard pressed to match his talents in that arena. Although I'm sure you have many of your own."

"You misunderstand me, Ambassador," Desai said. "I'm not here about any sort of competition. I'm just concerned for your well-being. What do you know about Tom Paris?"

Lwaxana frowned and sent out some feelers. He had some dreadful secret to tell her, she saw. Something about Tom. Desai hated him. No… not quite hate. It was more like he despised Tom, but as you did something pitiful — like a half-squashed insect waving its legs helplessly in the air. "Captain," she said, her voice dropping several degrees in warmth. "I'm not sure what you think you know about my pilot, but I assure you—"

She was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass. Lwaxana and Desai turned to see Tom, an empty drinks tray held loosely in his hand and the remains of two cocktails smashed at his feet. Even in the atmospheric lighting of the ballroom, Lwaxana could see how pale he was. Fear and nausea billowed off of him. He was nearly unrecognizable. "Tom?"

"Captain Desai," he said, his voice barely audible over the din of the ballroom.

"Tom," Desai said, stepping towards him. "I see you've managed to land on your feet. Have you considered letting your mother know that?"

"I wrote her last month," Tom muttered, his eyes dropping to the floor. "She knows I'm OK."

"After a year of _not_ knowing!" Desai's voice rose in pitch. "With everything you've done to your parents, you could at least have the decency to keep them apprised of your whereabouts. To not make them wonder if you're alive or dead. But why think of anyone else, eh? I was stationed on Earth when you disappeared. I saw the results of your actions even if you were too cowardly to stay. Your mother and sisters were devastated, and your father—"

"That is quite enough, Captain!" Lwaxana snapped, placing herself between Tom and Desai. "Regardless of what offense Mr. Paris has allegedly committed, I assure you that it's far less odious to me than this vicious personal attack. I know everything I need to know about Tom Paris, and he's clearly a person of far more quality than you!"

Desai tugged on the front of his tunic and brushed off his sleeves. "My apologies, Ambassador, for offending you. I only wished to inform you of the sort of person you're associating with, as I suspect Tom has been less than forthcoming. If you change your mind and want to hear what I have to say, you may contact me on the _Douglass_. We won't be leaving orbit until late tomorrow." The captain left the alcove at a brisk clip.

Lwaxana turned her attention to Tom, who was crouched on the floor, picking up shards of broken glass. His hands were trembling. Even without a full mental link she could feel the panic setting in. Lwaxana arranged her gown as best as she could, cursing the boning at the waist, and tried to kneel towards him. "Tom, dear. Whatever it is—"

He stood abruptly, nearly knocking her off balance. "It's… I don't…" His breath was coming in panting gasps. Lwaxana was alarmed to see that he was near tears. "I'm sorry. I have to go."

Lwaxana didn't follow him as he fled the ballroom. She _couldn't_ follow him. She was Betazed's chief representative at the event — leaving before the President's address was too politically charged an action for her to risk it. She only hoped Tom would understand. When she had Mr. Homn call him, they discovered he'd left his comm device behind. Why hadn't she insisted that he let her open a link between them, so she could explain? What if he mistook her staying at the gala as a reflection of her feelings towards him and Desai's attack on his character?

The moment it was acceptable to do so, she said her good-byes and contacted the hotel. "No, Mrs. Troi," the front desk attendant told her. "He hasn't come back that I'm aware of." She was ready to call the authorities, have them search the local bars, when Mr. Homn suggested they check the runabout.

That's where she found him, sitting on the floor of his darkened quarters, his tie undone and the splendid tuxedo jacket crumpled up into a ball in the corner. A half-empty bottle of amber-colored liquid was sitting next to him. He looked up at her when she came in the room, squinting from the bright lights of the corridor. "Your replicators still only make synthehol." His voice was raw and low.

"I thought it best not to take any chances," Lwaxana said, coming into the room and lowering herself onto the edge of his bed. She reached over to where he was sitting and smoothed his hair.

"You don't trust me," he said, leaning briefly into her touch before jerking away. "Smart decision on your part."

Lwaxana sighed. This would be so much easier if there weren't so many words in the way. "It's not as simple as that. If you would just let me show you what I'm thinking, if you could let me—"

"No!" he barked, stumbling to his feet. "I told you. I don't want you in my head. Just… Look. You, us… it was wonderful. _You're_ wonderful. I've been so happy here. With you. But I don't deserve it. I don't deserve your help, or your kindness, or any of the things you've done for me. So I'm going to do what I should have done months ago. Once we get back to Betazed, I'm leaving."

"Tom, please," Lwaxana said. "I don't know what this Desai character knows, or thinks he knows about you, but the person that _I_ know deserves all the happiness in the world. You can't let one person—"

"It's not one person!" Tom cried. "This isn't about what Desai thinks! This is about the fact that I let myself forget. Who I am, what I did. But I remember now, and I'm not going to let it hurt anyone else. Just let me go. Please. Don't make this harder."

It was a risk, but Lwaxana could see the situation was desperate. That Tom was desperate. _Tom. Listen to me. See my thoughts and my feelings. Know that whatever you did, it won't change how I feel about you._

It was like he'd been hit by a phaser blast. "Get out!" he shouted at her, clamping his hands over his ears. "Please! Don't do this. Don't you understand? You'll hate me if you know, and I couldn't take it if you hated me."

 _I won't hate you, Tom._ Lwaxana came at him slowly, like she might approach a wounded animal, and wrapped her arms around him. _I know what it is, to make a mistake. I know what it feels like to be filled with so much pain you can't do anything but hide it away, praying you'll forget. I know, Tom. Let me show you._

Lwaxana pictured a little girl, one with brown hair and a contagious laugh. She thought of the joy that little girl brought her parents, only doubled when she was joined by a baby sister. Then Lwaxana carefully dismantled each of the mental barriers that kept the next memory locked away and secret, only shared with those for whom she cared most deeply. The memory of a day at the lake, and a terrible little dog, and a child lost forever. All because Lwaxana looked away at the wrong moment.

 _Her name was Kestra_.

Tom looked into her eyes, tears streaming down his face. "Your daughter?"

Lwaxana nodded, unable to speak again through her own tears.

Tom wrapped his arms around her, murmuring words of solace as he stroked her hair. When she was calm again, she pulled back and touched his cheek. "So you see, dear," she said aloud. "I've made my own share of terrible mistakes. And I know about burying your pain, hoping it will never see the light of day again. But what I've also found is this: sharing the pain helps. Please let me help you."

"What if I don't deserve your help?" he asked, his eyes searching hers.

"Why don't you let me decide that for myself?"

"I…" Tom let out a shuddering breath. "I don't think I can say the words."

Lwaxana reached out and caressed his cheek. _Then don't say it, Tom. Just let me in._

And he did.


	8. Chapter 8

As Tom entered orbit around Betazed, waiting for ground control to give him permission to land the runabout, he reflected on how he'd managed to completely screw everything up once again.

All this time he'd been afraid to let Lwaxana read his thoughts because of what she'd find out about Caldik Prime — the mistakes he'd made that got his best friend and two other officers killed, the lie he'd told and lived with until he couldn't anymore. But Lwaxana had handled that like a champ.

She'd been filled with compassion for him, and sympathy, and had given him the forgiveness he needed but still wasn't able to give himself. He'd cried that night in her arms — the first time he'd allowed himself to without the crutch of alcohol to help him. The first time he'd really mourned for the lives he'd ended that day — those of Charlie and the others, but also, selfishly, for the one that he'd always thought he'd have. It still tore him apart, what he'd done, but telling Lwaxana made him feel like maybe it wouldn't be so wrong if he allowed himself to be happy again.

They'd made love afterwards, gently, his tears barely dried on his face, and Tom discovered that sex with a Betazoid that had full access to your thoughts was an experience like no other. He'd fallen asleep in her arms, Lwaxana saying words of comfort and love — whether with her mind or her mouth, he couldn't tell.

Then Tom woke up the next morning and made a grave error in judgement. He'd told Lwaxana he was in love with her.

It wasn't some (seriously mind blowing) orgasm-induced impulse, either. Tom had been in love with her for weeks. Her confidence, her fearlessness, the ardor with which she embraced every moment. He'd never thought he could tell her before last night, thinking he would never let himself be fully honest with her. And he knew what Lwaxana valued above all else was honesty. But when he'd let her see his deepest secrets and fears, and she still hadn't rejected him — it felt like it was time to tell her all of it. He'd said the words aloud, thinking perhaps they'd be more meaningful that way, so it'd be clear to her how much he wanted her to know his feelings. But he'd left his thoughts open to her as well, so she'd be able to see the truth behind the sentiment.

The effect of his words was instantaneous. It was like she slammed a blast door shut on her mind. The distance between them was so sudden and complete that, for a moment, Tom thought she'd physically leapt from the bed. He blinked several times to reassure himself that she was still there, lying next to him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have just blurted it out like that. I didn't mean to—"

"No, dear," Lwaxana interjected. She rose from the bed for real now. "There's no need to apologize. It was lovely what you said to me just now. I appreciate it, I do. But I just remembered I promised Lady Karrian that I'd contact her this morning, to discuss the technology exchange we've been working on. I don't want to forget."

Tom watched silently as she wrapped his bathrobe around herself and swept from his room. The thing Tom had learned about Betazoids was that dishonesty was a rather foreign concept to them. They might keep secrets, they might omit a salient fact here and there, but outright lying was almost an unknown in their society.

Which explained why Lwaxana was so bad at it.

His initial, self-involved thought was that she was rejecting him because of what she'd learned. That despite the compassion she'd shown him the night before, the reality of the lives he'd taken with his carelessness was too much for her to accept. But he quickly realized that was nonsense. Lwaxana wasn't much of a liar, her bullshit excuse about having to call Lady Karrian was proof positive of that. There was no way she could have faked the depth of feeling she'd shown him.

Was it his age? It had never bothered her before. His reputation? Lwaxana wasn't one to care much what others thought of her. Their relationship might garner her a few judgemental looks, but so did half her wardrobe. She'd stop short of causing an interstellar incident, but otherwise not much prevented Lwaxana from doing what she wanted to do.

There was nothing else for it. He was just going to have to ask her what the hell was going on.

An hour later, he was waiting patiently outside her door for her to respond to his knock. There was no reason for him to knock again — she'd probably known he was there before he'd done it the first time. "Come in," she called finally, the door sliding open. "Oh, hello, dear. Are we ready to head home?"

"Yeah," he said, trying, unsuccessfully, to make eye contact with her. "I just need to notify the Transport Authority and we can go. But I thought maybe we should talk first. About what I said this morning."

She smiled at him, and Tom cringed at the falseness in her expression. "There's no need, dear. As I told you earlier, it was a lovely thing to say. But what it's shown me is that I've let our little dalliance go on too long. I think it's time for me to create some distance between us. For you to spread your wings and fly away, as it were."

Tom's mouth fell open and his stomach dropped. How could she do this to him? He'd laid himself bare to her last night, had thought she'd done the same with him, and now she was shutting him out? Unfortunately, the way this jumble of hurt and confusion manifested itself was an indignant: "What the fuck, Lwaxana?"

"There's no need to be crass," she sniffed, and Tom could feel her put up another mental blockade between them. Her eyes dropped to the PADD in her hand. "You're confused. It's not your fault. It's happened to many men before you, including several who were older and wiser. What you think is love is merely a mix of gratitude and lust. And it will fade just as quickly as it appeared."

"No it won't!" Tom cried. "This isn't some schoolboy crush, and you know it!" He jabbed at his temple. "I let you in. You _know_ my feelings are real. You can't pretend you didn't see that!"

Lwaxana looked back up at him. "I know you _think_ your feelings are real. But you're barely more than a boy, Tom, albeit a very sweet one. You're lonely, you miss your family, and you think you've found someone to replace them. You're not looking for a lover, dear, you're looking for a mother."

"Believe me, Lwaxana," Tom said, kicking at a leg of her coffee table. "The last thing I think about when we're together is my mother."

"Vulgar comments are hardly going to convince me of your undying affection, Mr. Paris." She rose from the chaise. Her expression softened, and Tom felt a surge of hope. "Last night was very special to me. You're very special to me. I know how hard it was for you to trust me, but—"

"But you don't trust me," Tom finished. This was ridiculous. The woman could read his fucking mind, for God's sake! How could she think he would tell her he loved her unless he truly meant it? "What is it, Lwaxana? Do you think you can't rely on me? That I'll leave someday?"

Tom didn't need to be a telepath to see how she tensed. He'd hit paydirt. The indomitable Lwaxana Troi was afraid. "That's it, isn't it? You think I'm going to get bored with you, decide the grass is greener. Or younger, or whatever. Well, guess what, lady? I'm going to prove you wrong. I'm not going anywhere."

Except that he had to, because at that point she'd silently pointed towards the door, her expression cold. There wasn't much Tom could do _but_ leave. Lwaxana closed and locked the door behind him, and hadn't come out since. The only person allowed admittance was Mr. Homn.

"Can't you tell me anything about how she's feeling? What she's thinking?" Tom had asked the valet a day into their journey back to Betazed. "Maybe write me a note?"

Mr. Homn had just shrugged with a regretful frown.

And now they were back on Betazed and Tom wasn't even sure he'd have a job as of tomorrow, although that was the least of his worries. There had to be a way that he could convince Lwaxana that his love for her was the real deal. He'd lost too many people in his life for him to give up one more, especially one he loved as much as he loved her.

For once in his life, Tom Paris wasn't going to run away.


	9. Chapter 9

Lwaxana really did feel terrible about the whole thing. Their affair never should have been allowed to go as far as it had. She knew how hurt Tom had been when she'd pulled away, but what he didn't understand was that it was for his own good. One day, though, he'd realize what Lwaxana was trying to do for him.

He was just so very _young_. Lwaxana knew Tom _thought_ he knew what he wanted, but didn't everyone think that when they were twenty-five? Goodness, if she'd followed every impulse she'd had at that age, she'd have eleven husbands and would be living on that hedonism colony on Gaudens II. No. Tom was a dear, sweet boy; but it was time for Lwaxana to set him on his own path in life. One that let him live up to his potential, that maybe gave him a wife his own age and the family he deserved. One that didn't include her.

If only he would be a bit more cooperative.

He wasn't doing anything wrong, exactly — no stalking her in the corridors of the runabout, or inundating her rooms with flowers or other empty romantic gestures. He'd even stopped pestering her to talk to him after the first day or two. He was just… there. All the time. Helping Mr. Homn around the house, updating her security system, working in the gardens. It was like he was waiting her out, poised and ready to jump the second she offered to welcome him back into her bedroom. He absolutely refused to take the hint that she wasn't going to allow that to happen.

No matter how much she wanted to.

Because, of course, Lwaxana was in love with him, too. How could she not be? Handsome, kind, passionate. There were countless times in the past few months she'd wished Tom were thirty years older or she were that much younger. But wishing accomplished exactly nothing at all. So Lwaxana was going to be the strong one, the unselfish one, and she was going to do what was best for all parties. She was going to fire him.

"Mr. Paris," she called to him as he labored in the garden, transplanting herbs into a location more convenient for her chef. "I was wondering if we could talk."

He straightened from the bed he'd been working on, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. She really should have picked a time when he wasn't working outside. At some point in the hour he'd been out here, he'd apparently misplaced his shirt. _Stay the course, Lwaxana_ , she told herself firmly, forcing herself to look away from his chest.

"Of course, _Mrs. Troi_." Tom said her name with a hint of the sneer he'd had when she'd first met him five months ago. She hadn't addressed him directly in nearly a week and apparently he was going to make her pay for it.

"It's clear our current arrangement isn't working," she started.

"No," Tom agreed, going back to his herbs. "It's not. But it used to — when we were together. It used to work great. So I'm just going to keep doing what I'm doing until you realize that, too. Until you see I'm not going anywhere, and my feelings are _not_ going to change."

"That's not going to work either, dear."

Lwaxana laid it all out. He wasn't being fired, exactly, it was just that she'd been able to locate another position for him — one that was more suited to his abilities. She had an old flame, one that she'd parted with amicably a few years back (not that Tom needed to know that part). The relevant information was that she knew an engineer, a designer of starships, and he was always looking for test pilots. After Lwaxana's good word, he'd happily agreed to give Tom a trial.

"And where does this 'friend' of yours live?" Tom asked, standing again with his arms (very well-muscled arms) crossed tight over his chest. His eyes flashed a challenge. It had become a bit unsettling, how he now could see through her as well as any telepath.

"Tantum IX." Lwaxana forced herself to hold his glare.

Tom snorted in disbelief. "That's almost two months away at warp seven."

Lwaxana couldn't take the hurt in his eyes and looked at the blossoming kaji berry trees that grew along the northwest wall. She cleared her throat. "There's a transport leaving the day after tomorrow. That should give you time to pack your things. I am hoping you'll still come tonight. Prime Minister Sostia is expecting you, and it might make things awkward if you aren't there."

"So is this what you're telling yourself now?" Tom demanded. "That you're sending me away to help my _career_? That it's not just about you being afraid I'll leave you?"

Why was he being such a child about this? Why couldn't he see that what she was doing was for the best? His arguments only hardened her resolve. "I am not afraid. I'm realistic. And your skills are going to waste here."

"That's it, then," Tom said. "'So long, Mr. Paris. Good luck, God bless and thanks for being a great fuck.'"

"Please don't, Tom," Lwaxana said, her brow creasing with concern for him. Even in the throes of alcohol withdrawal, he'd never been vicious. His reaction was proof positive she should have put a stop to things long ago. "Don't ruin what we had."

"What did we have?" Tom cried, throwing his hands in the air. "How important could it have been if you're tossing it away like this?"

"It's not like that." She moved to touch him, take his hand, but he pulled out of reach. "I'm not tossing anything away. I just want you to be happy. Happier than you could possibly be flying my little ship around."

"I don't get to decide what makes me happy anymore? I'm too young to even know that?"

"Tom," Lwaxana said. "I know all the things you accomplished at the Academy, what people said about you before Caldik Prime. You're so much more than what you are on Betazed. I just want you to be everything you should be, not stuck here, stagnating." She tried again to reach for him, and he allowed her to take his arm this time. "I know you care for me. And I care for you, very much. Which is why I know you need more than this, than us. I promise, a month into this new job, you'll forget all about little old me. Please. Go, be who you were meant to be. Just let our time together be a cherished memory. I know I'll always treasure it."

He looked up at her, his eyes staring deep into hers. "Do you know why I became a pilot? Why I always loved to fly?"

Lwaxana shook her head. She was tempted to peek, to see where he was going with this, but the least she could do was let him tell her what he wanted to, the way he wanted to.

"Because for a very long time, I thought it was the only thing that made me special." He backed off again, raking a hand through his hair. "That's all anyone ever talked about, you know? What a good pilot I was, how I was a natural. So it felt like that's all that was important. Don't get me wrong — I like the speed, the adrenaline. I like being so good at something. Who wouldn't? But I _loved_ flying because… I felt like it was the only reason people loved me."

Lwaxana open her mouth to protest but he waved her to silence.

"Caldik Prime took that away from me. Or, I guess, I gave it up — the day I crashed that shuttle. Afterwards, the last thing I wanted to do was fly again. But it was all I had left, no matter how much I hated it. Every time I got behind the controls, it felt like a punishment. But I thought that's what I deserved." He gave a small smile. "Until I met you. You were the first person to make me think that maybe the mistakes I made that day, and afterwards, maybe they didn't have to dictate my whole life. That maybe I could be more than just the irresponsible guy that crashed that shuttle. Ironic, isn't it? That I started to like flying again because I realized there was more to me than just being a pilot." He shook his head. "You showed me that, Lwaxana. You made me feel like I could still be worth something someday. How can you think I'd ever give that up?"

She nearly broke at that, how sad and lost and sincere he looked. But she knew this was the right thing to do. "Because you don't have any other choice."

Lwaxana turned on her heel and went back into the house, closing the French doors with a soft but decisive click.


	10. Chapter 10

After the immediate crisis was over, Lwaxana wondered if she'd been less distracted by her concern for Tom and his reaction to their imminent parting, if she would have been able to prevent what had happened. Perhaps the telepathic shielding would have still worked against her considerable mental prowess, but perhaps not. She'd _known_ there'd been something off the moment they reached the museum where that night's reception was being held. She'd just kept finding the wrong things to blame it on.

Tom disappeared from her side as soon as they crossed the threshold, muttering something about spotting Prime Minister Sostia. Lwaxana almost asked him to stay close, being a bit unnerved by the protesters that had been gathered outside. Sostia's planet, Lumensi, was a capitalist society, and many Betazoids were discomfited by the idea of their government having a trade agreement with them — even one that would benefit both planets as much as this one would.

But while Lwaxana could be accused of occasionally being selfish, she certainly was never cruel. She let Tom vanish into the crowd without a word.

It was a long and dreary evening. It took a ridiculous amount of energy to 'fake it' in a room almost three-quarters populated by telepaths. If she'd been an iota less powerful, Lwaxana would have feigned an illness and begged off after an hour. But she'd been instrumental in bringing this treaty to fruition, and she was one of the most advanced telepaths on her planet, so she soldiered on — never letting her eyes stray far from Tom, where he danced and laughed with the prime minister on the other side of the expansive gallery.

So when she noted, for the tenth time that night, that something about the energy in the room was just wrong, she thought it was because she was tired, or the anger of the protesters was leaking in, or because she was so distraught over Tom. But then she saw him.

It was just a waiter. He was too skinny and his skin was a rather drab shade of green for his species; his hair was lank and unflattering. He was not someone that Lwaxana would normally take note of at all. Except that he didn't make sense. Based on his appearance, he was almost certainly Bardan. There were several of them present that evening, as guests and staff. But Bardans were telepaths, and rather dreadful ones at that. They often had little to no control over their thoughts, but instead bombarded everyone around them constantly. But this waiter — he was a complete blank. It was like he was an android.

Lwaxana's curiosity was piqued and she followed him towards the kitchens. Anything that might be a diversion from this terrible night.

Once he passed through the service doors, he didn't head left to the kitchens but instead took a right. Even more intriguing than his lack of readable thoughts! She watched as the waiter slipped inside a room and let the heavy door shut behind him. Lwaxana had just pulled it open a crack to peer in when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Lwaxana," Tom said, his brow furrowed. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing, dear," she said, not releasing the door knob. "I just saw the oddest little man come back here and I wanted to see what he was up to. He's Bardan but I can't read him at all. I've never seen anything like it! I thought it would be interesting to—"

Tom rolled his eyes and pulled on her arm. "Yeah, I'm sure it'll be fascinating. But you need to go back to the reception. The protesters have got everyone on edge, and I just heard from security that they found something suspicious by the service entrance. A bunch of clothes and a dermal regenerator. They're beginning to wonder if someone here isn't who they say they are. They don't want to start a panic, but everyone is supposed to stay in the main gallery, so they can keep track of who's coming and going. You shouldn't be lurking back here."

Lwaxana let the door click shut. "I'm not _lurking_. I'm just satisfying my curiosity. Besides, maybe my little friend will have some information on these items they've found."

Tom only tugged harder on her arm. "Yes, Lwaxana! That's exactly what I'm worried about! We need to get you somewhere safe, then I'll tell security to check this guy out."

Lwaxana started to protest — she did so hate it when people ordered her around — but that's when several things happened all at once.

The Bardan's telepathic shielding failed.

It became instantly clear to Lwaxana that the waiter was _not_ Bardan, but actually from Lumensi. He wasn't happy about the treaty and he was intending to blow up the museum.

He'd also heard everything Tom and Lwaxana had said and was panicking.

Finally, his disruptor was armed and he was about to throw open the door.

There was no time. If Tom had been telepathic, if he'd been prepared for the screamed warning she'd shot directly into his mind, he might have been able to get behind the door to safety. But instead, when Lwaxana pulled hard on the door knob, hoping to throw the waiter off-balance, Tom had spun in a tight circle, disoriented. When he stopped he was looking directly into the eyes of the armed and panicked waiter.

Tom turned his face to Lwaxana for just a fraction of a second. _I love you_ , he told her. Then he threw himself at the waiter and tackled him to the ground. She'd already telepathically spread the alarm throughout the security staff; she could hear them pounding towards their location. They wouldn't get there in time to help Tom. Even on the other side of the door, she could feel the vibrations of the disruptor's blast.


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N:** _This time I owe apologies to Simon and Garfunkel. It's a bit on the nose, but I couldn't resist...

* * *

 _Tom? Can you hear me? Please answer me._

 _Lwaxana?_

 _Yes, dear! I'm here. Everything's all right._

 _Am I alive?_

 _Yes. Very much so._

 _Am I awake?_

 _Not quite._

 _I… hurt._

 _I'm so sorry, dear. Don't fret. I'll call the doctor._

 _No! No. Please. Don't leave._

 _I'm not leaving. I'm right here with you._

Some hours or days later, Tom decided it was time to wake up for real. His eyes didn't want to cooperate, though, as they were sealed shut with a heavy layer of sleep. He brought a hand to his eyes to wipe them, but his fingers felt clumsy and dull.

"Let me do that."

A warm, damp cloth gently rubbed at his face, and Tom blinked. "Lwaxana," he croaked, when he could see her again. She looked different. He couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't bad, per se. But something wasn't right.

He tried to ask her what had happened and who had decided it was a good idea to park a shuttlecraft on his chest, but she verbally shushed him and mentally sent waves of soothing thoughts until he nearly fell asleep again. _Save your strength_ , _dear_ she told him once she'd elevated the head of his bed and spoon fed him ice chips for his scratchy throat. _You don't need to speak. I'll tell you everything._

It took a few rounds of ice chips before Tom was alert enough to follow the story — Lwaxana had to reassure him several times that she had not been injured and that their attacker was in custody and no longer a threat. The waiter had been a lone wolf. When Tom had tackled him, the Lumensian had not yet had a chance to trigger the explosives he'd rigged in the ductwork below the main gallery. The security force had subdued the man almost immediately after Tom had taken a disruptor blast to the chest, and no one else had been injured. Tom's actions had thwarted the attack before it had even really begun. "You're a hero, my darling," Lwaxana told him, smiling.

Tom looked at his hands and his cheeks burned. "I'm no hero," he muttered. "You're the one who knew something was off. I would have never even been there if I hadn't followed you..."

A well-manicured hand closed over his own. "Which you did because you wanted to keep me safe, despite how I've hurt you. I'm not sure anyone's ever been so noble on my behalf." Lwaxana cupped his cheek. "Don't downplay what you did, Tom. You saved many people's lives that day. Including mine."

Tom shrugged as much as the pain in his chest allowed him. It's not that he wasn't happy no one else had gotten hurt; but all he could seem to think of was the last time he'd woken up, broken and disoriented, in a hospital bed. The three lives that he _hadn't_ saved. The ones that he'd ended far too early.

"Tom."

He didn't look at her. He didn't want to hear anymore, about how Lwaxana thought he was a hero. He didn't want to see her understanding eyes or hear her comforting words. He wasn't even convinced _she_ believed them, so why should he? Because if she did think those things — if she really thought Tom was good and brave and kind — why would she be sending him away?

 _Look at me,_ Imzadi _._

Tom's head jerked up. His knowledge of the Betazoid language was still limited, but… "What did you just call me?"

" _Imzadi_. Beloved. You're a good person. You are. I've seen it since the day we first met—"

Tom's left eyebrow went up. "You called me a 'Starfleet reject.' You only hired me because you didn't have another choice."

Lwaxana sighed and put a finger to his lips. "You're ruining the moment, dear." She straightened and cleared her throat. "As I was saying: you're a good person. I've seen it since… very early on. No matter how much you try to hide it. I know you made a mistake, a terrible one. But the reason it hurts you so much is because of what a good heart you have. And if it takes me the rest of my life, I'm going to convince you of that."

Tom's eyes searched hers. The rest of her life? Was Lwaxana saying what he thought she was? Tom felt a small bloom of hope. But maybe he was just kidding himself. Maybe the meds he was on were making him see things as he wished them to be instead of as they were. He tried to take a deep breath but his sore ribs stopped him. "What are you trying to say, Lwaxana?" he asked her when the pain dulled enough for him to speak again.

She placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. "That I've been a fool, to think I could let you go. Please stay, Tom. Stay and fly my silly little ship and share my life with me. Please."

Tom gave her a relieved smile and felt his chest tighten again — in a good way this time. "Like you'd ever take no for an answer." Lwaxana laughed and kissed him lightly on the mouth. As she pulled away, Tom frowned. He still couldn't figure out what was different about her. She definitely looked different.

"What's wrong, dear?"

"Nothing, really," he said, squeezing her hand. "Just wish I had the energy to pull you into this bed with me."

Lwaxana kissed him again, a little longer and more firmly this time. "I promise you, my handsome love. A few weeks from now, I fully plan on having you make up for lost time."

They sat together quietly after that, Lwaxana stroking his hair and Tom's eyes getting progressively heavier. He was more tired than he could remember ever being, but he didn't want to close his eyes. What if she changed her mind again? What if she wasn't there when he woke up? And he still couldn't figure out what was different about her. Her hair, maybe? No, that wasn't it...

"There's one more thing we should talk about," Lwaxana said, but her voice sounded far away.

"Mmm?" Tom murmured, finally giving up the ghost and letting his eyelids slide shut.

"It's about your parents, dear. I called them. They're arriving on Betazed tomorrow."

That woke him up. The low beep of the cardiac monitor on his bed started to accelerate. "My parents? You called them? Why would you do that?"

 _Stay calm,_ Imzadi _. Too much stress isn't good for you right now._

"Then you shouldn't have told me my parents are coming!" Tom became restless, felt trapped. His legs kicked weakly at the heavy blankets that covered them. Lwaxana sent him a burst of calming thoughts and images. Part of it might have been the drugs, but it was a little like getting a mental bear hug. Suddenly it became much harder for him to stay agitated.

"That's hardly fair," he said, trying, unsuccessfully, to infuse the words with indignation.

"It's preferable to being sedated, isn't it?" Lwaxana remarked. "I had to contact them, Tom. Your name was going to be all over the news feeds. That's not the way a parent should find out their child has been gravely injured. You're forgetting, I think, that in addition to being a daughter of the Fifth House—"

"And holder of the chalice, and the sacred rings, blah, blah, blah," Tom grumbled.

"Don't sulk, dear. It's unbecoming," Lwaxana said, but she pursed her lips into a small smile. "But yes, in addition to those things, I am also a mother. I know what it means to love a child, even one that drives you to distraction. I also know that the two people I spoke to love you very much, and have been terribly worried about you. It's time to let them back in, Tom. At least a little bit."

"Fuck," Tom sighed, and noted that Lwaxana must still be pretty worried about him, too, given she didn't call him out on his swearing. "You're really going to make me see them, huh?"

 _Yes,_ Imzadi _._

 _I wouldn't do this for anyone else, you know._

 _I know._

 _Not until tomorrow?_

 _Not until tomorrow. You should rest now. You're tired._

She lowered the head of his bed and began to stroke his hair again. Tom smiled back at her and leaned into her hand. Just as his lids dropped, though, it hit him.

"Hey," he said, his eyes flicking open once again. "I figured it out."

 _What, dear?_

"What's different." Tom reached a hand towards her face. "You're not wearing any makeup."

He felt as well as saw her blush, and she pulled back, tucking the hand that reached for her back under the blankets. "Well, I suppose you were bound to see it eventually," she said, her tone brisk. "Just as well — you should know what you're getting into. It's not too late to change your mind, you know."

"Don't say that," Tom said. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, makeup or no." He yawned and let his eyes close. "I'm not going anywhere."

 _Except to sleep._

 _Maybe that, yeah._

 _I love you,_ Imzadi _._

 _Me, too._

 _/=\ /=\ /=\_

Mr. Homn was worried.

He was standing in the doorway of Tom Paris' bedroom — his empty bedroom — holding a tray laden with several of the pilot's favorite breakfast foods. Tom Paris had only been released from the medical center three days' prior, and the Honorable Lwaxana Troi had instructed Mr. Homn to ensure the young man didn't overtax himself. This included breakfast in bed.

But no one was in the bed.

Certainly if something had happened overnight, if Tom Paris had had some sort of medical setback, Mr. Homn would have been the first to know. He would have been the one tasked with alerting the hospital and arranging for care, so it seemed unlikely a physical problem was what had chased Tom Paris from his bed.

Mr. Homn did continue to have some concerns for Tom Paris' mental state. The attack at the museum had been traumatic by itself, of course, and his parents had only left Betazed yesterday. While all had been cordial towards each other, it was clear that the older Parises' presence was a source of some tension. Perhaps Tom Paris had been too distraught to rest? But where would he have gone?

That's when he heard it.

It had been a long time — several months at this point — since Mr. Homn had last heard that particular sound. Tom Paris was singing. It was far more pleasant this go round, though. No slurring, no weird hiccups or gasps. Just a reedy tenor, only slightly flat.

"I get the news I need on the weather report!"

Mr. Homn took his tray and followed the sound down the corridor. Towards the Honorable Lwaxana Troi's suite of rooms. _Interesting._

"Heeeeeyyy, I got nothin' to do today but smile!"

Mr. Homn knocked on the door and the Honorable Lwaxana Troi soon offered him admittance. She gave him a broad smile as he entered the room. The curtains were thrown back to reveal a fine morning with cloudless azure skies, and steam was billowing out from under the bathroom door. His mistress lounged in her daybed wearing her favorite dressing gown, a delicate silk adorned with a pattern of kaji berry blossoms.

That appeared to be all she was wearing.

"Heeeeeyyy, let your honesty shine, shine, shine now! Doh-n-do-doh, n-doh-n-do-doh, like it shines on meeee!"

Mr. Homn raised an eyebrow and held up the tray.

"You can leave it here, Mr. Homn. I'll make sure he eats when he's done in the shower," she told him, smiling like the proverbial riga cat that ate the ekka bird. "I don't want to disturb him. He really has a lovely voice, don't you think?"

Mr. Homn bowed in agreement and smiled as he backed out of the room.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** This is it, folks! I'm so glad I managed to make converts out of at least some of you. (And rest assured, as far as I'm concerned, in 93.4% of the multiverse, Tom and B'Elanna find each other. Lwaxana just gets one small corner.) Many thanks again to Sareki02, Photogirl1890, and really all the denizens of Deck Nine for their help and encouragement.

* * *

Deanna Troi felt a large, warm hand wrap around the small of her back. She nearly fell over in alarm before whipping around to confront the perpetrator.

"My, my, Counselor," Will Riker said, his blue eyes twinkling. "Very jumpy this evening. You didn't sense me behind you?"

"No," she said, giving him a small glare. "I'm focused on… other matters."

They were at the Loogootoo Cotillion along with Captain Picard, representing Starfleet. It was a grand affair, various bits of pomp and circumstance adorning every surface. Of course her mother would be the one representing Betazed at tonight's festivities. She wouldn't dream of letting anyone enjoy all this frippery without her.

"No offense, Deanna," Will said, "but it's not as if your mother hasn't had her share of romantic partners before. Why does this one have you so worked up?"

Deanna couldn't really explain it, not even to herself. Perhaps it was because her mother's letter about him had been so atypical — no florid proclamations of love, no vivid descriptions of his sexual prowess. Just a short missive: Lwaxana had a new 'consort,' she was bringing him to the Cotillion, and she looked forward to the two of them meeting.

Her mother's letters had been odd for months, actually. Brief and bland, no discussion of her continual search for a new husband. She couldn't remember the last time Lwaxana had subjected her to one of her lengthy pleas that Deanna finally get married and start a family. On top of that, there was the recent attack on Betazed at the Museum of Antiquities — Lwaxana could have easily been badly injured or even killed if it hadn't been for the actions of her pilot.

Which was a whole other cause for concern. Deanna was grateful, of course, that Tom Paris had saved her mother's life and thwarted the terrorist behind the attack, but it was one of Starfleet's worst kept secrets: what Admiral Paris' youngest child had done on Caldik Prime and how he'd tried to cover it up. Deanna believed in second chances, of course, but it was hard to be charitable when her mother's safety and well-being was at stake.

"I suppose I haven't stopped worrying about her," Deanna finally said to Will, "after what happened last time she was on the _Enterprise_ , when she finally told me about Kestra. In some ways, we were closer than ever after that. But on the other hand, lately I've gotten the feeling she's been shutting me out."

"Well," Will said, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. "Maybe introducing you to this man of hers is her way of letting you back in." He lifted his head and smiled. "Speak of the devil. There she is now, with… oh."

Deanna extended her neck, but even with the high-heeled slingbacks she'd worn for the occasion, she didn't come close to Will's height. She tugged on his arm. "What is it? Who is she with?"

She heard Lwaxana before she could see her, her mother's distinctive laugh carrying well above the noise of the crowd. Impatient to see what had Will so amused, she pushed him forward like a plow, helping her make her way through the throngs of party goers.

Lwaxana was already holding court in the center of the room, unabashedly flirting with Bruckin Weck, the Minister of Decency from the planet Maula. On her left side, standing slightly behind her with a wicked grin on his face, was Tom Paris.

"Why is she with her pilot?" Deanna said, her brow creasing. "I thought she was bringing her latest… Oh, no. Oh, God. Will, please tell me this isn't happening."

Will's grin was so broad he looked like his face was about to split in two. Deanna quelled an urge to punch him in the arm. "Oh, I'm pretty sure this is happening."

For at that moment, Paris had leaned forward, his hand so low on her mother's back that it really wasn't her back anymore, and kissed her just below the ear. Lwaxana turned to beam at him, then spotted Will and Deanna.

"Little One!" she trilled, waving her hand in the air as she bustled towards them, dragging Paris in her wake. "And Will! How wonderful to see you both! Come and meet Tom."

Deanna held her ground and plastered a smile on her face. "He's got to be ten years younger than me," she muttered from behind clenched teeth.

"Jealous?"

"Oh, shut up!" she hissed back. "What is she thinking? He's a child! And you know about Caldik Prime."

"I also know," Will remarked, his voice dropping low, "that he came forward of his own accord and took full responsibility for what happened. _And_ he saved your mother's life. Maybe you should keep an open mind, Deanna."

Deanna inhaled deeply through her nose and focused on keeping her reservations as hidden from her mother as possible. "Hello, Mother."

"Deanna, darling." Lwaxana wrapped her in a tight hug. "It's been far too long. And Will! Handsome as always, I see. Don't spend too much time on my daughter's arm tonight, Commander. I don't want you to scare away any potential suitors."

"Mother!"

"See, my dear," Lwaxana said, pulling Tom deeper into their little group. "I told you she can't take a joke."

Tom shuffled forward, eyes down, obviously reluctant to meet them both. After a nudge from Lwaxana, he picked his head up, his expression almost defiant. "Commander Riker," he said, with a nod for Will. He then turned his face towards Deanna. "And Counselor Troi. I've been looking forward to meeting you."

He was lying. It was obvious. Not, as Deanna might have initially guessed, out of obligation or politeness, but because he was scared. Of her.

Will stepped forward and clasped his hand around Paris'. "Good to meet you, Mr. Paris. I have to admit: I've been curious to see the man that trounced so many of my piloting records at the Academy."

"Oh," Tom said, his fair skin flushing crimson. "I didn't… I mean, I don't really do that kind of flying anymore, sir."

"Call me Will."

As the two men discussed various piloting techniques, Paris' demeanor became more animated — it was clearly comfortable ground for him. No doubt Will had chosen the topic for a reason. Deanna turned her attention elsewhere.

 _Mother, what are you thinking?_

 _Really, Little One! I'm surprised at you! Communicating telepathically in front of non-telepaths!_

 _Mother._

 _What are you overreacting to this time, darling?_

 _He's barely out of adolescence! And do you know why he's no longer in Starfleet?_

 _Of course I do, darling. He's told me everything. Tom and I don't have any secrets._

 _Has he told you, then, why he's so scared of me? Why he's so worried about what I'll think of him?_

 _Isn't it obvious, Little One? You're my daughter. Of course he's worried about what you'll think of him. Now play nice. You'll discover he's an absolute lamb, if you spend even a second talking with him. And I want you to stand with me at our wedding in the fall._

 _Wedding? You're getting married? To him?_ I'm _almost old enough to be his mother, and you—_

 _Don't finish that thought, Little One. A mother can forgive quite a bit, but not everything._

Not having any other choice, Deanna turned back to the young man that would, apparently, be her new stepfather soon. (She didn't even want to think of the comments from Will once he found out.) She would 'play nice' as her mother requested. But she wasn't optimistic.

"Counselor," Tom said in a quiet voice, taking a step towards her.

"Deanna," she said, forcing herself to smile at him.

"Deanna." Tom took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I don't blame you, for being suspicious of me. If one of my parents… Well, just know that I understand if you have reservations about my relationship with your mother. But I swear to you, whatever you've heard about me, whatever my reputation is — I really do love your mother. And I am going to do everything I can to make her happy. I promise. You can… look for yourself if you want." He gave her a tentative smile. "I used to be afraid of being around telepaths, before I met your mother. But now — it makes things easier, doesn't it? Not having anything to hide."

Deanna looked into his clear blue eyes. No dishonesty this time. Tom Paris was an open book. She could see his guilt and shame over past mistakes; anxiety and tension about his parents, Will, herself. But she also saw that, with deep and abiding feeling, he absolutely adored Lwaxana. Deanna smiled back at him. She didn't have to force anything this time.

"Tom, darling!" Lwaxana called out, grabbing him by the hand. "You know how I love this song. Come and dance with me."

"Of course." Tom grinned and nodded at Deanna before following Lwaxana towards the dance floor.

"So," Will said, retaking his place by her side. "Feeling any better about things?"

Deanna opened her mouth to reply when they were both roughly bumped from behind. She turned and looked up. "Ah. Mr. Homn. I didn't realize you were here."

Her mother's towering valet nodded and smiled at them both in turn, then forcibly shoved Will and Deanna apart so he could stand between them.

Deanna leaned forward so she could meet Will's eyes. "I have to admit," she said, "that despite my initial reservations, they do seem very happy together."

Will grinned back at her. "Agreed. And that's what matters, after all. Although I will say I wouldn't have made that coupling in a thousand years. Who could have predicted that your mother and Owen Paris' prodigal son would find happiness together?"

"Who, indeed?" said Mr. Homn, and he smiled.

 **THE END**


End file.
